


This War of Mine

by SnowshadowAO3



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Contains events up to 3B, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Drama & Romance, F/M, Gen, Hops Around In Time, M/M, Multi, Warm Bodies inspiration, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-21 20:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7402585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowshadowAO3/pseuds/SnowshadowAO3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I think if someone could see the stars, they’d have to be outside the settlement at night,” Stiles muses to him, when he sees Derek looking up at the sky.</p><p>“So they’d be dead,” Lydia chimes in, and Derek feels sick.</p><p>Even the stars don't survive this kind of war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cuppiecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuppiecake/gifts).



Derek remembers the first time it happened.

I mean, he remembers as much as one could expect. Everyone is still unsure, even now, how it actually began. It’s hard to tell when the normal range of supernatural ended and The Feasting began. It was small signs that built over time—that he knows. He remembers the first mouse that smelled just a tad off, the human whose eyes were a bit too tired to be natural, really.

If only they had known, then.

* * *

 

“Derek.”

He turns, titling his head as Stiles strides out of the makeshift Sheriff station at their new base. A gun is slung over his shoulder, his tall, thin frame cast into a bright luminescence from the rising sun. The sky is painted the colors of sherbet, pink tendrils mixing with the orange backdrop over the mountains. Derek wishes that he could find it beautiful, still.

“No, Stiles,” he says, because he doesn’t need to be supernatural to know what the human is up to, and Stiles rolls his eyes and bends down to tie his dirty shoe. Derek looks at him, at how his hands are too familiar with the deadly weapon on his back and the way his muscles tense as he straightens up. He knows that men are expected to gain strength from warfare. It doesn’t stop him from wishing that war had never touched Stiles.

“Shut up, sourwolf. You can’t go on a raid on your own, even if you think you are the big bad beta.” At this, Derek growls at him, flashing his teeth. He can handle a few Feasters; after all, what else is being a werewolf good for, if not surviving? He’s long since lost the chance to run in the woods without care, to feel the satisfaction of curling up with his pack. What’s the point of living anymore if he can’t take care of the others?

After his rumbling has passed, Stiles still looks unimpressed. He crosses his arms and clucks his tongue, patience bleeding through his eyes in a way that is so _Stiles_ that is almost reminds Derek of _before_. “No matter how much you huff and puff, Derek Hale, you won’t be blowing down the Feasters by yourself.”

“I’m fine on my own.”

“Humor me,” Stiles drawls, and Derek can’t do anything to stop him shoving up one of the wall doors and stepping into the wasteland outside.

* * *

 

It is almost comical that the start of The Feasting was in Beacon Hills. How could they expect anything else?

* * *

Derek winces and Stiles digs a knife into his skin, pain shooting through him in a dizzying cacophony of sensory overload. He leans back against the tree, trying not to think about the Feaster nail that is currently imbedded in his skin, hand still attached. The severed piece hangs there, green and with the first sign of a maggot starting to appear as it worms its way through the rotted flesh. He’s had worse, yeah—but it’s been a while since he’s had a Feaster nick him like this.

“I’ve got you,” Stiles murmurs, and Derek shuts his eyes as a pang travels through him.

It was only after The Feasting started that Derek realized he had underappreciated Stiles. Sure, even before this whole mess, Derek had possessed a grudging respect for him. Any human who could stand up to a werewolf without every ounce of him smelling like fear was at least slightly deserving of it. Stiles had stayed loyal to the pack, to his family and friends and classmates, through the thick and the thin. Even after the Nogitsune (and it was so many years ago, now, years that Derek has lost track of and that show in every added line of the Sheriff’s tired face), Derek hadn’t been able to blame him. He knows what it’s like to not feel in control. He lives with it.

So sure, Derek had tolerated Stiles back when Beacon Hills was still around. Appreciated him, sometimes. But it’s only now, with his home in flames and the forest that he once ran in as a pup smothered in the scent of congealing blood, that Derek really can value the human. Stiles is methodical, thorough. He works with a focus that is extremely disconcerting, considering how they don’t have medication for ADHD in stock anymore. Granted, he’s no Melissa—but no one can beat Mrs. McCall, not even the other doctors that they found surviving at this camp. And in an emergency, with only a few of the others out hunting with them, Stiles is more than adequate. He’s _good._

“All done,” Stiles says, and withdraws his bloodied hands as the nail oozes out of Derek’s body with a sick, wet noise. Stiles tosses it to the side, a look of pure disgust on his face as the nail (and the hand attached to it) plops onto the dying grass. But he doesn’t seem afraid, not phased in the slightest as he looks down at his blood-smeared clothes and the flecks of Feaster membrane on his shoes. Instead he looks at Derek and grimaces. “Scott sure as hell won’t be getting first shower tonight.”

Derek can’t help but laugh at the normalcy of it.

* * *

 

Everyone thinks that a zombie apocalypse would mean that stars would shine brighter. After all—cities fall. Civilization sputters out. The lights that caused the sky to dim are gone. Yet Derek can barely see the stars anymore, over the smoke of people burning the dead to stop the spread of the disease, and the fires they fuel to keep the Feasters away.

“I think if someone could see the stars, they’d have to be outside the settlement at night,” Stiles muses to him, when he sees Derek looking up at the sky.

“So they’d be dead,” Lydia chimes in, and Derek feels sick.

* * *

They all have useful skills that they bring to the base. Melissa and Deaton help the medical team, sometimes direct them. The Sheriff is a co-leader, elected by the survivors at the camp along with a woman named Charlie. They keep things in order, keep people calm. Liam looks after some of the kids, the survivors—people who need someone to hold on to. Scott is a great peace-maker, skilled at diplomacy: Derek saw that when he convinced the neighboring base to merge with them, despite past tensions between the two groups. Lydia flits around the base and yells at people in her makeshift lab coat, a vial of whatever attempted cure she’s made up that month in her hand. Malia, with her sensitive nose and ears, is the perfect scout. Everyone knows how to fight, but Kira is particularly good at aiming rocks at the Feasters to keep them away from the wall while the hunters retreat back into safety.

And Derek? Derek is good at doing supply trips. He can carry a lot and move fast, and he’s so paranoid that things rarely sneak up on him. If they do—well, he knows better than to get bitten, and any claw marks will heal fast. They figured that out when Satomi got attacked: the claw marks heal, but werewolves sure as hell aren’t immune to the virus. After what happened to her, they’ve been careful. He’s one of the few werewolves here now, though. He’s respected, even admired by some of the others who came all the way from Oregon to find a safe place. But it doesn’t make him feel proud. Just worried.

Worried sick.

* * *

June 27th is the worst day of Derek’s life.

It’s the day that the imagined becomes real.

* * *

He doesn’t know when it happened, but it’s already early January and Stiles has become his partner in the trips most weeks. He’s grown stronger and faster, less flailing limbs and more hard muscle from hours of work and worry. He has a few lines on his face, even though he’s not even twenty-two yet. He is as tall as Derek now, and it’s annoying as hell. His smell is changing, the bright notes of citrus and mint that were once so prevalent being overshadowed by a dark, musky, amber smell that makes something in Derek tingle. It’s disconcerting, and because of that, Derek brushes it off as yet another frustrating thing about Stiles that he won’t bother to try and explain.

As much as Derek likes to complain, it’s useful having the human along. He can see patterns that Derek doesn’t, can predict in a way that Derek has always been unable to. Stiles is still wicked smart, the tent he shares with Scott and Liam covered in maps and makeshift sketches of Feaster hideouts. He’s infuriating and stubborn and thinks he knows best, and Derek never fails to smile when he thinks about how Cora punched Stiles in the face after he told her that one of her theories on Feaster biological deterioration was wrong. He remembers old Stiles: afraid of blood and guts, wary of the supernatural, always joking and messing around. And it makes him realize that even though they all like to pretend they are the same people as before, things have changed, now. Stiles still jokes, true; but in the in-betweens he’s a bit quieter, a bit more reflective. Sometimes he meets Derek at dawn, the gun always over his shoulder, and joins him in a quiet walk around the outside of the base. Occasionally, they talk. But most of the time, they listen. There’s an eerie peace about it all, to have everything completely silent except for their breathing.

Even though he knows they could die any second, Derek finds comfort in having another living, breathing body next to him for the time being.

* * *

 

“Do you ever think what it would have been like if The Feasting hadn’t happened?”

Derek raises his eyebrows, looks over at Stiles from across the makeshift fire they’ve made in the middle of the dry clearing. Stiles is gazing up at the sky, still dark before the coming dawn, his smooth throat lit by the flickering flames.

“Sometimes,” Derek admits, and Stiles nods.

They don’t meet eyes, and they don’t say anything else.

* * *

“Stiles, Stiles!” cries the little voice, and Stiles whips around just in time to catch a small girl in a dirty sundress. He hosts her up and she squeals, laughs as he spins her around in a circle. He grins at her, eyes crinkled and dimples tracing his cheeks, and she shrieks as he flips her upside-down. Her dress falls over her head, revealing scarred legs and worn pantyhose, skin flecked with spots and tears from the roughness of the camp.

Derek watches from the opening of his tan tent.

“Stiles,” Liam warns, and Stiles rolls his eyes and places the girl on the ground. She’s instantly begging to be picked up again, but Stiles just flicks her on the nose with a gentleness that Derek hadn’t realized the human had.

“Sorry, cupcake, but I think Mister Liam wants to ruin all the fun.” Derek feels a smile tug at his lips and Liam scowls. The movement feels strange, as if it hasn’t happened in a while, and it takes Derek a moment to realize that it’s because it _has_ been ages since he smiled. They’ve been at the camp for fourteen months now, away from Beacon Hills for years, and Derek doesn’t even know how he really feels anymore.

Across the camp, Stiles glances up from the little girl. Their eyes meet, and it takes a moment but Stiles finally offers him a small smile. It feels like it is just for Derek, somehow, and when the werewolf ducks back down into his tent, his heart feels a bit fluttery. He sleeps even less than usual, that night.

* * *

 

June 27th is the worst day of Derek’s life.

It’s the day that everything stops mattering.

* * *

In early April, Derek is pacing back and forth by the wall, Scott sitting next to him with tense muscles.

“They should be back,” Kira says, and Derek wants to strangle her for a cruel, horrible moment. Because she’s right—they _should._ Cora and Stiles left on the supply mission with the promise that they would be back before the sunset started to color the sky.

So where are they?

“They’ll be back,” Scott says, but Derek can smell the unease on him. The alpha won’t look at him, instead rubbing Kira’s arm in an attempt to soothe her. Malia wraps and arm around the kitsune’s shoulders and glances up at the darkening sky, a frown on her face.

“It’s been hours, Scott. We need to send someone.”

Scott shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous.” Derek stops pacing to glare at him, and Scott holds up his hands. “Derek, c’mon, you _know_ we can’t go out now—”

“I’ve been out before, at this time,” he argues, and Scott frowns again.

“Against my requests, yeah. And you haven’t been going alone for a while. Stiles has been with you.”

Rage hits Derek. “I don’t need a human with me to take care of myself,” he snaps, and Malia growls lowly at him. Her and Stiles haven’t been a _thing_ since the Nogitsune disaster, but they’re still protective of each other. It bothers Derek, although he doesn’t know why. He feels his eyes flash, and she does the same in return. Scott steps between them.

“Guys! C’mon. Stop. Fighting isn’t going to help anyone.”

“That’s my sister out there, doing that scavenge, in case you forgot,” Derek hisses, and a look of hurt and anger flashes across Scott’s face.

“And my _best friend,_ Derek. My _brother._ ” Derek feels guilt rush through him in a wave, and he bites his own tongue to stop from wincing. Scott looks at him, pitying, and rubs a hand over his eyes. “I’m worried too, Derek. But I can’t let anyone else get lost out there. If they aren’t back within the hour, then—then we can go, together.”

Derek opens his mouth the argue, say that it’s _his_ job to protect the pack and that risking Scott’s life is just too dangerous, when Malia jerks suddenly and twists her head to the opposite side of the wall. At the same time, the scent of blood fills Derek’s nose, and Scott lets out a growl.

Derek bolts to the other side of the camp, the warm scent of Stiles’ blood mixed with the spicy smell of confusion that he knows well to be Cora’s. There is a crowd gathering near one of the lookout windows, and Derek shoves through them to try and catch a glimpse. As he does, someone opens the door.

“Cora!” he cries, and darts forward to grab her as she stumbles through the opening. There’s a bruise across the side of her face and scratches exposing the bones of her neck, still not healed even though they are crusted with dried blood. He jerks her away from the wall, grips her shoulders the way a sinner grips a cross. “Are you—did they—what happened?” he manages, and she sags into him with the smell of exhaustion heavy on her skin.

“Not bit,” she grunts, and Derek feels a hot wave of relief rush through him. He hugs her, tight, and only then notices Stiles.

He looks… rough. Now that Derek sees him, the smell of his blood is all the more potent. Scott has an arm looped under the human’s shoulders, holding him up as his head bobs in some type of semi-conscious state. His pants are soaked with blood (blood that Melissa is looking at with a firm expression, the one she uses when things are really bad but doesn’t want to show it), the fingers of his left hand mangled and twisted at odd angles. Derek’s stomach contracts painfully, and he wants to throw up.

“He was such an idiot,” Cora says, and Derek pulls away from the hug to look at her. The color is already returning to her skin, and it makes him feel like wagging a tail he doesn’t have. “A goddamn idiot. Freaking threw himself between me and one of the Feasters, the asshole. I probably would have been bitten if he wasn’t there, but it was so—so—” She seems lost for words, and Derek just nods, numb and feeling more thankful for Stiles than he ever has in his entire life.

“He’s clean,” Lydia announces, and there’s a rush to get Stiles to the hospital tent now that they know he hasn’t been bitten. The human’s eyes flutter open, just slightly, and as he’s carried by Derek, their eyes meet.

Derek’s stomach jolts again.

* * *

 

The first time he kisses Stiles, it’s not how he imagined it.

Because he does imagine it, often—especially as the scavenging missions become more and more frequent, the time spent together turning from hours into days of constant company. Stiles makes up games for them around the fire, while rooting through medical supplies, when passing by the rubble of abandoned buildings. He teases Derek, complains when the werewolf makes him carry something too heavy, points at the few stars they manage to see and tells Derek how beautiful the sky still is.

They pretend that they never heard Lydia’s comment on what it meant if they could see the stars—the world is dark enough already, without them thinking about how often they are away from the campsite and putting their lives at risk to get these supplies.

They’ve never been ones for convention.

* * *

When he sees Stiles in the community showers, nursing a huge cut across his leg and wearing a sling on his left arm, Derek gets so mad that he shifts accidentally for the first time in ages.

Because he _is_ mad; the only thing special about it is that it normally stays under the surface, like lava about to erupt from the dark rocks of a volcano. He’s mad at the world, mad that the one home he managed to find was destroyed by this horrible virus, mad that he had to lose his entire family and now _everything else_ , and god—why can’t it just _end?_

Stiles doesn’t even flinch at the unexpected movement, so used to Feasters showing up around corners that a werewolf is hardly something to blink an eye at, now. It makes it so much worse—to realize that their lives have become _this_ messed up. He wishes Stiles would be afraid, that the human would yell at him about how _unfair_ it is that he never got to go to college or become a writer or have any semblance of normalcy. He needs Stiles to stop sacrificing his safety for the sake of the Hale family and little girls and his best friend, wishes that the human would just stay within the walls and be safe for _once_ in his _goddamn life—_ because he’s making Derek _feel_ things like companionship and appreciation, and those emotions have no place in this wasteland they now call their lives _._

They stare at each other for a few moments, the soft pitter-patter of Stiles’ heart and his amber-tinged scent bleeding through the sounds of water and the smell of fresh blood. Derek feels oddly unhinged, and the more he looks at Stiles’ leg and arm, the worse it becomes.

He bolts out of there like a mouse running for cover when it sees a hawk, and wonders when he started to care so much about Stiles.

* * *

 

There was blood—lots of it. He remembers smelling rotten flesh, human meat devouring itself from the inside out. Proteins decomposing themselves, fat going rancid. He remembers the dust settling slowly on places where it shouldn’t: the school, the forest, the houses, and then the hospital.

He remembers the look on Stiles’ face as they left Beacon Hills for good.

He had looked too old for being 19.

* * *

 “What do you think the Feasters think about?” Stiles asks him one night, and Derek frowns. This is long before they kiss, long before Derek knows what the fluttery feeling in his stomach means. “Like, what is up there, in their brains?”

Derek doesn’t answer, and Stiles is quiet for a moment. They watch some members of the camp walk from tent to tent, checking in on those sleeping. The moon is nearly full, and it itches Derek’s bones. It makes him want to run.

He's still not fully comfortable talking to others. Something about the empty landscape, the dirty children, the bloodstained clothes—it takes away a person’s voice, their will to speak. But he can talk to Stiles, sometimes. Because Stiles asks the questions that others don’t want to. He’s the one who asks if someone is going to die, if they’ll have to decrease rations to get through the next month. He’s the one who points out that sometimes what they have to do isn’t normal, like when they had to make up children’s stories about Feasters so the kids wouldn’t try to sneak out of the camp but wouldn’t be scared shitless. It’s a strange kind of trait, to be so upfront and so honest about the fucked up direction that their lives have turned. In a way, Derek finds it refreshing.

Pretending can become exhausting, after all.

“Hunger, probably,” Stiles decides, well after the sun has gone down over the horizon, and they don’t say anything for the rest of the night.

Later, when he sees a Feaster tear into a rotting corpse on the side of the road, Derek wonders if Stiles is right.

* * *

June 27th is the worst day of Derek’s life.

It’s the day when everything changes.

* * *

It’s too close of a call, one time.

Derek and Stiles are out at an abandoned shed in May, scavenging for medicine that is running in increasingly short supply. That’s one of the horribly ironic things about all of this: there is more than just the Feaster virus to fight. People forget that the flu and colds and infections still happen during times of war. In a way, it is worse. The Feaster virus, at least, is quick. As long as you make it back to the camp, you die with a bullet in the head and it’s over. It’s not the same when you’re in the medical tent, praying to god-knows-what that you won’t die. Hoping that medicine will be found on the next scavenge.

Stiles is sharp, attentive. Derek feels oddly comfortable around him now— it’s almost impossible not to, when you have to put your life and mind in someone else’s hands. Sometimes he wishes that it wasn’t like that; that he and Stiles could have the same distant, aggressive relationship as before. It was so much simpler back then.

They’re moving aside pieces of wood, Stiles talking to him about his brief attempt at woodworking in high school, when Derek smells it. He lets out a snarl and Stiles tenses, hands going to his gun with practiced instinct.

They next few moments are a blur, really. Looking back, Derek can hardly remember how they got out, or how many there were. All he knows is that there were too many, and that Stiles is all soft flesh that is easy to rip into. And the human is so, so stupid; so stupid that it makes Derek angry. Because he does it _again—_ the self-sacrificial bullshit that makes him so impossible to protect.

When they’re finally to safety, gashes against Derek’s stomach and a bloody bruise already forming against Stiles’ face where he was slammed into the floor by a Feaster, Derek turns on him. He can’t get the image of Stiles pinned down, about to die, out of his head. His claws are still coated in Feaster blood that had splattered across the wooden floor.

“How are you so stupid?” he shouts, infuriated. “You could have _died,_ Stiles! Or worse: bitten! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Stiles seems taken aback, all big eyes and heaving chest. It’s then that Derek realizes that he hasn’t yelled at Stiles, not in a very long time. Sure, in this case, Stiles probably deserves to be yelled at. After all, he did take the time to grab the medicine and throw it to Derek instead of running away as soon as they were ambushed. But Derek can’t help find it funny that _this_ is what surprises Stiles—not the fact that they were being attacked by killer zombies, not that Stiles was close to death, but that Derek yells.

Stiles clears his throat. “I had to do it,” he says, as if that is enough of an explanation, and Derek is so frustrated and relieved and _alive_ that he leans forward.

It shouldn’t surprise Derek that their first kiss is out of desperation. When he tells Cora, she tells him it isn’t unexpected, really. But for Derek, the way Stiles kisses him back is.

* * *

“They’re getting smarter,” Scott says, and Derek resists the urge to pace.

It’s been two days since he and Stiles kissed. Derek can still taste him in his mouth, feel his rough skin and dry lips, the warmth of his body pressed against Derek’s.

Naturally, they haven’t talked about it.

“What do you mean?” Kira asks, and Stiles chimes in.

“The attack at the cabin where we got the medicine was more than just coincidence,” he says, and Derek nods. Stiles’ eyes flick over to him and Derek looks away. He can’t see Stiles’ expression when the human says, “It was an ambush.” But he knows the look that is in his eyes.

There is silence around the group. Everyone looks to Scott, expecting. Derek knows that they must be more tactical, now. Larger search parties to defend themselves. Taking alternate routes that the Feasters don’t know about.

 _I won’t be able to scout alone with Stiles anymore,_ he thinks, and his stomach feels like a stone. He is so frustrated that he wants to howl—because why the hell should he even care? They’re all going to _die,_ after all. When he finally looks up, Stiles is looking straight at him.

 _Please,_ the human mouths at him, and Derek’s heart lurches. Because he realizes that Stiles is thinking the same thing that he is—that it’s over. Whatever _it_ was. Stiles’ eyes are desperate. _Talk to me,_ he mouths again. Shame burns in Derek’s eyes—he can see it reflected in the beautiful ones that Stiles possesses.

Derek is too cowardly too meet his eyes again. Instead, he turns to the others. Scott seems to be thinking. But it’s Lydia who lets out a loud sigh and throws her hair over her shoulder. “Alright, then,” she declares, and grabs the other scientist by the arm. “Let’s get back to work on the cure.”

* * *

Sometimes the pain is all-consuming. The smell of pain –not only his, but those of everyone else in the camp—makes him want to be human.

He would rather have weaker flesh and a higher chance of dying than smell this much pain ever again.

* * *

“Are we ever going to talk about it?” Stiles asks, and Derek jumps. It’s midnight, and he’s on the job of guard for the evening. The wall around the camp has been reinforced recently, and it’s high enough now that a human could probably fall to their death if they stepped just a little wrong. The image is disturbing, and Derek swallows it. 

It’s been five days since they kissed.

“Stiles—” Derek begins, but Stiles interrupts.

“No, you know what, Derek? Shut up,” he hisses, and Derek turns to him in surprise. It’s only then that he sees the fire in the human’s eyes. There is a rage simmering in Stiles, about to rise up and engulf everything in its path.

“Let me just—” he attempts again, but Stiles isn’t having it.

“Don’t give me this shit, Derek,” he snaps. “I thought—I thought it _meant_ something. Normally, when someone decides to smash their face against yours and cling to a person –who was very much consenting, mind you, I was very much OK with that— it means they like you. It means, at the very least, that you have a conversation with the person and generally discuss what the fuck just happened.”

“Stiles—”

“Not done yet, Sourwolf! Do you have any idea what it’s been like, wondering what the hell is going on in your head? To try and reach out to you and have you just shove me away? If you don’t want romance, that’s fine, man. I can deal with it. We can be just friends; I wasn’t helping you or spending time with you just because I hoped you would like me back. But just—just fucking tell me.”

Silence hovers between them. The human stands straighter, crosses his arms. The muscles there are lean and strong. It is then that Derek looks at Stiles—really _looks_ at him. He seems paler than normal. More shivery. Derek wonders if he is as nervous as Derek is. The human’s eyes have blue shadows under them: a sign of no sleep. His lashes are still long, but the white of his eyes are tinted with red from the dust and dirt and destruction that they have to live in every day. His lips are dry—after all, who has time for chapstick now?

His lips are captivating.

“I can’t get you, and then lose you.” The words slip out of Derek’s mouth without his consent, twirling and twisting through the static air between them. He bites his tongue, hard, to silence anything else that might want to come out of his mouth.

Derek takes a step back when Stiles takes one forward, and the human holds up his hands to still him. There is something soft in Stiles’ eyes when he murmurs, “Derek…”

Derek shakes his head. “No,” he says, and Stiles looks down at his feet. “Things that I touch—they die, Stiles.”

Stiles looks him straight in the eyes at that. “Derek,” he whispers, “I’m going to die anyways. You being with me isn’t going to speed that up.”

* * *

 

June 27th is the worst day of Derek’s life.

It is the day that Derek wishes he was dead, so he doesn’t have to feel the pain.

* * *

“Why didn’t you tell me? Or—or anyone?” Derek demands of Lydia the morning after Stiles tells him, and she shoots a glare in his general direction as she drops some type of liquid into a clear solution on the table. It’s early June, and some small patches of flowers are blooming in the camp. They call it a miracle—Derek calls it nature.

“It’s not my job or right to tell,” she tells him, calm and controlled, and Derek wants to flip the table over and scream. Because he can’t be like her—he can’t contain this pain right now.

“Cancer, Lydia?” he snarls, and with a loud sigh she turns to him. He is taken aback—because Lydia’s cool expression seems slightly broken. She smells… sad.

“Yes, Derek. Cancer. Stiles had a higher chance with his family history, after all. He came to me a month or so ago, saying strange things were happening. We thought it was the Nogitsune, maybe. But it’s not, which you obviously know since he must have told you, and no one else has noticed—well, besides Scott, but Stiles isn’t telling him.”

Stiles had told Derek, up on the wall. About the extreme pain. About the seizures, the vomiting. Blood. How it was a secret—because if anyone knew, the misery would be extreme. So much better for Stiles to die on a scavenging expedition, something that was expected now, then the surprise of cancer.

And Derek had felt cold, so cold that he couldn’t move, even as Stiles stepped back and said “Just think about it—about us, ok? Because I’d be pretty happy to spend my last however long not feeling like Derek Hale is inaccessible. You’ve lost a lot—so I’m not asking to be, like, yours. I’m just asking to… I don’t know. Know you’re here.”

Derek is drawn back to the present by Lydia, who is still talking. “Aren’t you all supposed to be able to smell it?” she asks, and Derek shakes his head.

“Only… only certain kinds, sometimes. And there’s so much death and sickness and sadness that we smell. It—it drowns out stuff like that.”

Lydia nods, turning back to her vial. Derek stands there, hating himself. Because how had he not noticed?

* * *

 

It’s late at night. The smoke covers the sky, wind blowing it across the landscape and giving the illusion of a misty evening. The Feasters stay outside the wall, wandering aimlessly across the desolation they have caused.

Derek’s hands are shaking when he opens Stiles’ tent, the zipper sliding roughly underneath his fingers. It gets stuck a few times, the fabric old and ratty and in need of an upgrade that they don’t have resources for. Stiles is always the last one to ask for his things to get fixed. _Why bother,_ he once told Derek, months ago, and Derek knows it’s because some part of Stiles always knew he was going to die.

When he steps in, Stiles is sitting up with his hand already on his gun.

At the sight of Derek, Stiles’ eyes grow in surprise. A softness comes into them. “Derek,” he whispers, and Derek steps in further. He doesn’t know what to say, but Stiles pats the spot beside him and Derek sits. The gun is set aside.

“I don’t…” Derek whispers, but trails off. _I don’t want you to die. I don’t want this to happen. I don’t want life to be so unfair and painful anymore._

Stiles nods. “It’s ok, Derek,” he says. But it’s not. It really isn’t.

* * *

The cure isn’t working.

Derek can hear Lydia whispering to herself, sometimes, when she thinks no one is around.  “Maybe this time,” she breathes, and Derek tears himself away from the tent.

How does one even hope anymore?

* * *

 

June 27th is the worst day of Derek’s life.

It starts out as any normal day does—or as normal as one can get when living in the equivalent of a zombie apocalypse. They’re running low on medicine. Many people in the camp have become anemic, and they need iron pills. One of the children has a nasty fever.

“I can go,” Derek says, and the rest of the group looks at him with worry. It’s early morning, and there will be light for many hours—but they have seen some Feasters roaming closer to the camp during the day lately.

“Maybe we should wait for a few other scavengers to heal,” Scott suggests, but Derek shakes his head. They all know that the others who would normally scout with him need time to heal. Malia’s intestines were ripped out in her last hunt, and somehow got infected, and Kira is bed ridden with a fever of some sort.

“We can’t wait,” says a voice, and Stiles appears behind Scott. He is pale, and Derek’s gut twists with worry. Another episode? Another seizure? Has he been throwing up? It is impossible to tell, with Stiles. He disappears sometimes, and comes back paler. He won’t tell anyone anything—makes an excuse. He has one ready now, as well. “I must have gotten some nasty food poisoning or something. Sorry I’m late.”

“Maybe you should rest, man,” Scott cautions, eyeing his pale skin, but Stiles shakes his head. He looks at Derek.

“Nah, I’m fine now. Anyways, like I was saying—we can’t wait. And Derek can’t go alone. I can go with him.”

Derek’s stomach jolts. It’s been just a little more than a month since they had a scavenge with just the two of them—and that one didn’t go so well. Derek can see Scott and Liam thinking, brows creased with the weight of the decision. Finally, Scott looks at Derek.

“Is that ok with you?” he asks, because Scott always asks. Derek looks at Stiles—the firm set of his jaw, the fire in his eyes. He swallows.

Later, Derek will hate himself for what he says next. He will go over it again and again in his head, curse himself and throw himself against the ground until his claws bleed from trying to escape from his own body into hell.

“Yeah, it’s ok,” he says.

June 27th is the worst day of Derek’s life. It’s the day Stiles gets bitten.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. 2

Seeing Stiles get bitten makes something primal inside Derek snap.

Maybe it’s that he couldn’t protect the human. Maybe it’s that they both knew it would happen, but were too busy playing pretend, keeping a fantasy alive for the reward of just one more kiss. Maybe it’s that, out of all people, Stiles doesn’t deserve it.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter _why_ Derek shifts. What matters is that he doesn’t shift back for another six months.

* * *

In the first month, Derek still remembers that he used to be human. More accurately, he still _misses_ being human. It’s mainly because of the memories, the way that faces and events flash vividly through his mind with each familiar scent he catches on the wind.

The first few days, as Stiles transforms and writhes and turns the sickly grey and green of a Feaster, Derek smells many things. He smells fear—potent, for the 24 hours that Stiles is still semi-cognizant. The rotting smell sinks in next, a smell that over the next six months Derek will no longer notice because he becomes steeped in it. He is vaguely aware of howling, as well, the sounds of Scott and Liam and the others frantically searching, trying to smell them out.

It’s a few days later, after Stiles’ hallucinations and fever stop, that Derek smells hunger.

Stiles was right, after all. All a Feaster can seem to think about is food.

* * *

 

He remembers dragging Stiles’ bloody body as far away from the camp as possible, fear pulsing through his veins. _They’ll kill him,_ he thought, terrified of losing the one person who he thought he could maybe save.

If never occurred to him that maybe Stiles would have wanted to be dead, instead.

* * *

 

It’s cold outside.

They’re walking along a frozen river, Stiles’ slow feet dragging through the snowy forest around them. It’s mid-October, and Derek’s paws leave dents in the snow where they should be crunching leaves instead. _A cold snap,_ he hazily remembers, something in his memory from _being human,_ and he pushes the thought aside.

It’s been months since he was human, and he doesn’t miss it anymore. He feels pleasantly numb, now, as long as he doesn’t smell too much and chase a scent of his past. All Derek can really remember is being by Stiles’ side, walking. Roads intercrossing, miles passing with nothing but the wind and the quiet wheezing of Stiles’ breath. Derek hunts for Stiles, chases down deer and rabbits. They eat them across from each other, raw, guts and all. Stiles has a fondness for liver but doesn’t like brains, and Derek caters to him. The hunting started out months ago with Derek just wanting to avoid seeing Stiles eat humans, and now, well—it’s instinct.

“Stiles,” he says, and the air is filled with his growl. Does he really remember how to talk anymore? After all, what’s the point of talking if no one can hear you?

Stiles doesn’t slow, but reaches out a hand. Derek slips forward, nuzzles it, lets Stiles’ hand run through his matted fur. With that, Derek forgets for a few blissful moments that his life is completely fucked up, that he hasn’t seen other _humans_ in months, that Stiles always smells hungry for more flesh. He forgets that he hasn’t always been a wolf, that this hasn’t been his whole life. Just walking, with Stiles.

He closes his eyes and searches for the small scent of _old_ Stiles that is left; he tries not to think about how the once-human’s skin is green and his nails have grown into oozing talons. Because Derek holds on to some memories, ones that will cease to exist if he acknowledges that Stiles has been turned. He remembers looking up at the sky with him, kissing him softly in the private moments stolen in Stiles’ tent, holding the human as he recovered from a seizure.

He had a month with Stiles, and then the Feasters stole it all away.

When he opens his eyes, they’re standing on the edge of a huge lake, thin ice sheets floating across what must be rapids in the summer. Stiles has stopped walking. The snow under Derek’s paws have melted, and he realizes they must have been standing here for quite some time.

Stiles is staring at his reflection, eyes empty as always. Derek looks too— and then looks back at Stiles.

 _Come on,_ he wants to say. _Let’s keep going. Keep walking. Keep running away._

But they don’t move.

* * *

 

June 27th becomes just another day, a mark in a calendar of endless tragedy. They are lost souls, wandering, and Derek has given up the idea of finding redemption.

* * *

 

Stiles stays at the lake for days, unmoving. Derek brings him food, nudges his side, bites his tattered sleeves to try and get him to move. He frets. _I can’t lose him again,_ he thinks, and the tragedy that he may lose Stiles even after death makes him curl up in the snow and sleep, hoping that maybe he won’t wake up. Derek is good at many things, but feeling is not one of them.

He dreams a lot, ice numbing his nose and brain until he feels like he is just floating in a haze. It’s so peaceful, surrounded by white. He’s on some type of soft blanket, and he can smell Stiles near him.

“But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?” says a voice, and Derek sees Stiles. He’s human, soft pink skin and eyes full of life. Derek sits up, and lets out a huff.

“Are you quoting Shakespeare?” he asks, and Stiles just grins. Derek’s voice is human, and he looks down. Sees tan skin, short nails that are unmistakably his old body.

“It is the east, and Derek is the sun," the human declares, and  Derek glowers at him.

"Stiles, what are you doing?" he asks, and Stile’s expression turns sad.

“I’m wooing you, Derek,” he whispers, and Derek wakes up.

Being awake feels a lot like misery, he concludes.

 _I can’t give up,_ he thinks, and gets up from the ball he has made in the snow to go to sit next to Stiles. He looks at him, takes in the green skin and scarred face and torn sweatshirt that is covered with animal blood after months of not being cleaned.

Accepting that he will never get back dream Stiles –the human one, the one who is alive and talks and does stupid things like quote Shakespeare to him—hurts. But it hurts more to think that Stiles would be alone, if Derek left.

So Derek stays.

And after four days, Stiles moves.

Derek thinks he smells some type of confusion in the wind when Stiles comes over and rouses him, gets them back on their feet—but he decides it’s just his crazed mind playing tricks on him.

* * *

 

Feasters have extremely complex dynamics, almost like a pack.

It’s something Derek learns in early November, when he and Stiles stumble across a group of feasters that are living in an abandoned mall up in Northern California. The mall has long since crumbled, and blood stains are scattered across the carpets like popcorn in a movie theatre. When they arrive, Feasters are wobbling and lurching through the abandoned stores.

They seem curious, if that’s even possible. Derek is still convinced that they don’t have any feeling other than hunger, and he sticks close to Stiles with his hackles raised because of this. But they don’t seem aggressive, and Stiles and two others spend some time gargling and grunting a bit at each other without claws or teeth involved.

The only time Stiles makes a noise that sounds close to hostile is when one of the Feasters steps toward Derek, and the werewolf makes himself as big and scary as possible as Stiles hisses. The Feaster jerks back, looking between Stiles and Derek, and if Derek didn’t know better he would say that something of a shrug passes through its shoulders.

After a while, the crowd of Feasters around them wanders off, and he and Stiles are left alone.

 _Why didn’t they kill us?_ Derek thinks, but he’s distracted by the sound of Stiles’ feet moving across the floor. When Derek looks at him, Stiles has his head turned back, unnatural to say the least, but he’s looking at Derek. Almost as if saying, _Well? Come on, Sourwolf._

It’s been too long since he’s had human contact, he thinks, because Feasters don’t say anything at all.

* * *

 

With so many stores and courtyards, there is no shortage of places for Stiles to wander and Derek to follow. He’s in a routine every day, which starts when Derek wakes up from his three hours of sleep and ends when the werewolf needs to rest again. As one would guess, there’s a lot of very slow walking. Which would be annoying, but Derek can’t really complain as he’s the one who decided to tag along with the zombie, after all.

It starts with a walk through the abandoned courtyard, and then they have breakfast with some birds Derek catches at the local feed store there. They wander into Macy’s, or Hot Topic, or some other store that Derek has never set foot in before, and walk around some more. Then they go into the tile bathroom (and it’s the women’s, but I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?) and Stiles will just stare at himself in the mirror for a few hours. Derek keeps track of the time passing by with the drops of water from the leaking sink, which has caused a progressively bigger puddle to form each day. It takes Stiles approximately 1,386 drops to stop staring at himself and leave, wandering into the east side of the mall.

There’s a movie theatre on that side, equipment dusted over, but sometimes an electricity surge will occur and a movie will start playing. He and Stiles will go and watch them—or, well, Derek will watch while Stiles just sits and gazes blankly ahead. The movie is always the same, what with having no one to replace it, and it’s trash that Derek would never had watched in his old life. But he savors it now, takes relish in the drama and bad CGI and the human faces, because it’s really all they have left. They usually eat dinner from the few animals that are left in the forest beside the mall property, and he and Stiles snarl at any Feaster that tries to come close.

Well, any Feaster except Hank.  

Hank is a pretty cool guy. It almost seems as if Stiles and he are friends, if that’s even a thing here, because they always cross paths with Hank. Hank is another Feaster (whose worn-down, bloodied nametag says _Hank,_ and who Derek guesses did custodial back in the day) who seems relatively... well, normal. He and Stiles will just stop, stare at each other, and grunt a few times. An occasional uncontrolled tilt of the head, which Derek has learned sometimes leads to Hank’s head falling off, and an ensuing scramble to retrieve it. Derek always hovers awkwardly between them, afraid that a fight will start, but the meeting seems almost cordial. Hank and Stiles wander into the bookstore with Derek each day, and knock over things on accident. Stiles has a tendency of grabbing poetry off the shelves and ripping out the pages, which Derek guesses is part of his primal instinct to rip into things. He tries not to think about it.

Sometimes Hank will join them in the bathroom, staring at Stiles while he gazes in the mirror at himself, but Hank normally leaves after about 742 drops of the water. But he’s allowed to join Stiles and Derek for dinner, because Hank likes brains and Stiles doesn’t and Hank is pretty chill, and ok _maybe Derek doesn’t mind him either._

Not that Derek is losing his mind, or anything.

Then Derek sleeps. And the cycle repeats again.

Day after day after day after day.

* * *

 

They stay at the mall until mid-December. That’s when things change again.

* * *

It starts with a shortage of animals, as is expected in the dead of winter. Even in California, animals will migrate if things get bad enough. Derek spends a few more hours than normal hunting, but only manages to catch a small rabbit. It’s hardly dinner, but it’s all they have and Derek knows that Stiles needs something to keep up his strength. The other Feasters have taken to eating each other, what with the food shortage and all, and Derek doesn’t want Stiles to be next.

Hank and Stiles are waiting for Derek when he comes back into their den, which is an old janitor’s closet that Derek dragged some blankets into a few weeks ago so he could sleep on something soft. It helps keep him warm, too, because the mall is breezy. Hank and Stiles don’t need the warmth, but Derek still does.

When Derek drops the dead rabbit in front of them, Stiles looks at Hank, then back at Derek. He makes a grunting noise.

“That’s all I could find,” Derek says, just a growl to anyone else’s ears, and Stiles’ face forms into something like a puzzled frown. Derek snarls when Hank moves forward to grab some, and Hank’s eyes get wide. _C’mon, man,_ he seems to say, and Derek growls again. Hank is lower on the totem pole of importance than Stiles is, and Stiles will get food first.

He nudges the rabbit towards Stiles. “Eat some,” he says, even though he knows that no one but another wolf would understand. He knows that Stiles’ hunger will drive him to eat, once the scent of the blood gets close enough. So he nudges it even closer, flips it onto Stiles’ foot.

Stiles doesn’t move.

Derek hovers, feeling awkward for the first time in months, unsure of what’s going on. He pushes it, aggressively this time, towards Stiles. He can’t bully him the way he used to, but he can try. “It’s fresh,” he snaps, and Stiles looks at him. With a grunt, he reaches down with his green hand and grabs the rabbit.  With a huff of relief, Derek turns around to lay on a blanket. He and Hank will go without food tonight, to make sure Stiles can eat. Then Derek will try hunting again tomorrow.

He hears a ripping noise, and then something wet is tossed near his muzzle. With a snarl, he looks up and raises the hair on his neck. But he is stopped short by half of the rabbit that is in front of him, and the sounds of Hank tearing into the other half.

Stiles is turned away from both of them, staring at the wall. But from the way his shoulders are shaking, Derek knows that he’s crying.

* * *

Stiles won’t eat for the next few days, until Derek manages to catch a scrawny deer that works as food for all three of them. He tries to give Stiles the brain (much to Hank’s protest), because it’s so high in calories, but Stiles doesn’t touch it. He doesn’t eat his liver, either, even though it’s his _favorite,_ and Derek ends up howling at him in frustration while Stiles gurgles back at him with a serious face.

He seems more aggravated with Derek, has been ever since the rabbit incident. Derek is confused, and concerned, but he doesn’t know what to do. He can’t really turn back into a human and ask if Stiles is OK, because his chance of getting eaten alive is about as high as Peter’s chances of being a creep. In other words, almost guaranteed. There are so many other Feasters around that even if Hank and Stiles _somehow_ didn’t get him, the others would be sure to.

So Derek just trails along, into the bookstore and movie theatre and bathroom, feeling more lost than perhaps he has in the past six months. Because even though he’s been wandering, at least it’s been with Stiles by his side. But now Stiles is angry with him for some reason, and he feels very, very alone.

They’re in the bookstore when Stiles hits a shelf. Novels, yellowed and damp, scatter across the floor, and Derek yelps in surprise and jumps back. But Stiles is scrambling around, making a mess, searching for something. Derek can vaguely make out a few titles, things like _Romeo and Juliet_ and _A Midsummer Night’s Dream,_ and he realizes with a pang that it’s Shakespeare classics. It hurts too much for him to stay, and he slinks over the next row of shelves to get some space. He still remembers the dream that he had, so long ago, with Stiles trying to woo him with poetic lines.

Hank is in this aisle, and he looks at Derek when the wolf approaches. Hank is holding _Algebra for Dummies,_ slowly tearing out pages, and equations float past Derek’s eyes. Exhausted, he lays down and resigns himself to never understanding anything.

A few hours later, grunting rouses him from a sleep that he hadn’t know he entered. Raising his head, Derek sees Stiles wobbling towards him, torn pages clutched in his hand. Derek sighs and puts his head back down, but jerks to a stand when Stiles slides down next to him on the floor.

“Urrgh,” Stiles grunts, and Derek’s ears press back in confusion. Stiles makes a motion, almost like he’s trying to shove the pages in Derek’s face, and Derek jerks back.

“Urrgh,” responds Hank, and Derek’s head jerks to him. The papers fall to the floor, and Stiles grunts more at Derek, motioning rather wildly now. Derek stares at the two Feasters in confusion, and then looks down at the papers.

Random bursts of highlighter peek out at him, wobbly and uneven, as if a five-year-old had done it. Derek sniffs them, and only then notices the bright red marker that’s in Stiles hand.

 _What?_ he thinks, heart pounding in his chest, and leans in to look at the lines.

Hamlet is the first, the lines _Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't_ highlighted, and Derek feels his chest tighten painfully. He looks back up at Stiles, who makes a motion again. With his paws, Derek clumsily scrambles over to the next page, nearly ripping it in half by accident. _The miserable have no other medicine but only hope,_ it says, and Derek looks at Stiles with pure hope in his eyes.

“Stiles,” he whispers, and even though it comes out as a growl, he knows for the first time in six months that Stiles _understands._ Derek wants to jump on him, lick him, turn into a human and kiss him senseless, but he can’t. So he scratches the yellowed sheets of paper aside to get to the final page. Random letters are circled, the red ink bleeding through the page with how slowly it was done, and Derek tries to piece them together.

_R T A E H N C E C—CURE_

Derek looks at Stiles, feeling helpless. How is he supposed to understand this? The letters are gibberish, something that a puzzle master would have trouble understanding. “Cure” he understands, but that’s it. He growls at Stiles, pushes the papers towards him with his nose. Stiles looks at him, clearly not knowing how else to help, and Derek growls again.

Hank’s hand appears over his shoulder, and Derek nips at the papers in panic as Hank begins to tear them up. But Stiles grabs him, holds onto his fur with a tight grip that Derek didn’t know he had. He points at Hank, then at the highlighted message, and back at Hank again.

 _Hank’s helping,_ he’s saying, and Derek does his best to understand. But it’s hard, having all of it hit him at once, realizing that Stiles might be cognizant, that maybe there’s something about Feasters that the team never understood.

It takes an hour for Hank to arrange the letters on the floor, and Derek paces while he does so. He’s too wound up to go to Stiles, who is watching him and occasionally letting out a distracted gurgle. It’s Hank’s “Urgghs” that make Derek pay attention again, and he bolts over to where the two Feasters are on the floor.

 _THE CANCER—CURE,_ it says.

* * *

Lydia never really mentioned what type of cancer Stiles had, but Derek had always thought it was a blood cancer of some type. There hadn’t been many books at the campsite, and so he had never been able to confirm it for sure.

“It’s not worth looking into it, Derek,” Stiles had told him, nuzzled into his chest on June 26th. “That’s not going to be what gets me, anyways. I’ll make sure of that, at least.”

* * *

 

Derek spends a few days trying to piece things together. He’s not sure how cancer could be something that is a cure, given that it has deadly consequences in and of itself. With a flood of memories and guilt, he thinks of Lydia, and how useful she would find this information if only she were here.

 _I never should have abandoned them,_ he thinks, but he can’t imagine having left Stiles either. The Feaster-slash-human (which is what Derek has decided he is) is sitting next to him, still and quiet. Hank is wandering about, doing who knows what, and it’s one of the few moments of alone time that he and Stiles have had in a while.

 _Alright,_ Derek thinks, and stands up. Stiles gazes at him, and Derek rummages through the pile of ripped book pages that they’ve been using to communicate. He shoves a page towards Stiles, grabs the red marker with his sharp teeth, and drags it across a sentence on the page. It’s _Hamlet,_ and Stiles looks at it.

 _Doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love,_ it says, and Stiles’ eyes seem to get watery. The once-human reaches out, eyes wide, and Derek feels like he’s crawling out of his skin. It isn’t until he’s holding the highlighter with shaking hands that he realizes he’s turned back into a human.

After all these months, it feels unnatural to be human.

Adrenaline rushes through Derek, and his vision goes red for a few terrifying moments before he manages to calm himself down. Stiles’ fingers are touching his face, and Derek wonders if he is about to die.

Instead, Stiles leans forward and oh so carefully kisses him.

Derek kisses back.

“We need to head back to the camp,” Derek tells him, and Stiles nods.

“Urghhh,” he agrees, and a noise by their Den makes Derek tense.

Hank is standing there, eyes slightly red, and Stiles steps between them before realizing that Hank is crying. He’s holding something in his hand, and his head is bloody. Derek stands, slow and unsure, as Hank hands whatever he’s holding to Stiles.

It turns out that it’s a chunk of Hank’s brain—the part that had cancer.

* * *

 

Stiles hugs Hank outside the mall as Derek keeps watch, back in wolf form once again.

“Urgggg,” Stiles asserts, and Hank nods.

“Urgggg,” Hank replies, and that seems to be enough.

They took a backpack from one of the stores and wrapped Hank’s brain in it, packing it with snow to keep it fresh. Derek would be a bit disgusted if it wasn’t the potential key to their salvation. Plus, Stiles seems overjoyed to have it, so Derek can’t really complain.

Once Hank has wandered back inside the mall, Stiles turns to Derek. “Urggg,” he grunts, and Derek huffs. This was going to be one hell of a long walk.

 _The course of true love never did run smooth,_ he thinks, and they make their way back home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Cuppiecake for the "Light beyond thy window" idea!


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles’ body lies in a bed of white sheets. They are soft, and match his pale, bloodless skin that has no hint of pink left. Derek can’t tell if he prefers this pale Stiles, or the green Feaster one.

 _Please wake up,_ he thinks, and his heart feels like it is trying to crush itself in his chest.

It’s only when he feels a hand on his shoulder that he realizes he’s shaking, crying, pent-up emotion and panic and hurt welled up within him that is finally coming free.

“He’s going to be ok, Derek,” Scott says, and Derek nods, sniffs, wipes his eyes so Scott can’t see. Derek isn’t really one for words, and even less so when Stiles lays there, wordless as well. So they’re silent for a while, staring at Stiles’ unmoving chest and emaciated body.

“I never thought I was making a mistake, bringing him back,” Derek finally confesses, as if the words have been ripped out of him piece by piece, and Scott squeezes his shoulder. The young werewolf ( _but not as young anymore, not as untouched by pain,_ Derek realizes) sits down next to him.

“What happened, out there?” he asks, and Derek doesn’t know how to answer.

* * *

Five days after they leave the mall, they’re already running into communication problems.

Derek lets out a snarl and turns into human form, throwing his hands up in the air when Stiles refuses to walk anymore. “Stiles!” he snaps, and the Human-slash-Feaster glares at him and crosses his arms. “Are you seriously giving me sass? The quicker we get home, the closer we are to getting you cured!”

At this, Stiles looks pointedly down at his feet, then back up at Derek. Then he does some kind of random motion, like he’s going to hug something but only air is there. And then he points to the lake near them, full of cold water. Derek just stares at him, confused. Not being able to understand what he’s saying is driving Derek mad, and he would pay some big bucks for a Feaster-to-Human Google Translator now.

“Ok,” he says, and steps towards Stiles. It still feels weird to be around in human form, without thick black fur to shield his face. Even now, just five days in, Derek can smell more humanness in Stiles, and he knows that Stiles is analyzing his expression. Stiles takes a step back when Derek comes close, and it hurts Derek to see it.

Like always, he doesn’t say anything about it.

“So, here’s how this is going to work,” Derek tells him, and stars drawing letters in the snow. Stiles just watches him, and Derek wonders if he should be letting his guard down this much. But he doesn’t really have a choice, does he? It’s this, or leave Stiles unable to talk. And of all people, Stiles is the last one who would want that. “You’re going to point to the letters to make a word, then a sentence, and I’m going to trace what you say, ok?”

Stiles looks at him, unamused, and Derek throws up his hands again. “What do you want from me, Stiles? I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.” At Stiles slightly hurt look, Derek lowers his voice and softens his tone. Guilt sweeps through him. “I just want to know what you’re trying to say.”

That’s all Derek’s ever wanted, to be honest.

* * *

 

Derek doesn’t share the personal memories with Scott. He doesn’t share how he and Stiles would lay next to each other in the den at the mall, how Derek would always save him the liver. He doesn’t talk about Stiles and how he would rip up poetry, barely mentions Hank.

He’s good at divorcing emotion and reality. When so many people have died, it comes naturally.

* * *

“Cold feet?” Derek asks, stringing together the letters that Stiles has pointed too, and Stiles lets out a gurgle of acknowledgement. Derek furrows his eyebrows, classic Hale style, and looks up at Stiles. “Why?”

Stiles won’t look at him, and instead decides to wander off near the lake. Derek follows, frustrated and worried, and they stand together by the frozen shoreline. It feels familiar to Derek, this view, but he can’t place his finger on why. It’s a hazy memory, just out of reach.

“Why are you nervous to go back?” Derek manages to ask, not good at this whole talking about feelings thing, but he realizes he better get used to it because Stiles is going to have major trauma if he gets cured.

 _When he gets cured,_ Derek scolds himself, and is so lost in self-hatred that he doesn’t have faith in saving Stiles that he doesn’t notice what the once-human is doing. The sound of snow being pushed around is what brings him back, and he looks down to see Stiles kneeling by the lakeside. He’s scratching letters into the snow.

 _M,_ he starts, and Derek watches with baited breath as Stiles sloppily draws an _O_ after it. It’s followed by an _N,_ and then a _S,_ and at this point Derek gets it.

He grabs Stiles’ arms and pulls him up, rough and furious. “You’re not a monster,” Derek tells him, and Stiles can’t seem to decide whether or not to stay or pull away. He hovers in an in-between, as he always has, and Derek wants to pull him into his arms and cry. But he doesn’t. Instead, he continues on. “You’re not a monster, Stiles. I don’t know how long you’ve been self-aware, but there hasn’t been anything monstrous you’ve done this whole time. You never—you never ate anyone, ok? I hunted for us. And you didn’t hurt me. You protected me, once, when Feasters came too close. So just stop. We’re going to make you better, got it? And then we’ll make Hank better, and everyone else better, alright?”

He doesn’t think he’s ever said that much in his life, and he’s shaking from it. Stiles looks at him, as he always does, and Derek doesn’t want to let him down. So he grabs him and hoists him up, causing Stiles to let out an “Urgggg!” of surprise as he’s flipped over Derek’s back.

“Well?” Derek demands, as Stiles awkwardly clings to his back in flustered surprise. “Are you going to hang on to me or not? Your feet are cold, right? Let’s keep them out of the snow, then.”

It’s cheesy and stupid, and they both know that wasn’t what Stiles meant by _cold feet,_ but Derek hopes that Stiles is smiling inside. Because Derek doesn’t think he’s been able to _be there,_ to fully understand what Stiles is going through. He was born a werewolf, not made on like Scott, so he can’t even relate to the idea of once being human. So the most he can do, he thinks, is keep them moving forward. Keep them running home.

Eventually, Stiles’ arms move around his shoulders and neck, and Derek hoists him up to be more secure. “I can’t believe I’m finally giving you a piggyback ride,” Derek rumbles, trying to sound annoyed, but his heart skips when he thinks he feels just a bit of warmth in Stiles’ fingers.

* * *

 

They’re probably about twenty miles from _home_ when Derek hears it. It’s night, and they can see the stars sparkling above them. When he hears it, he freezes, as does Stiles. Then he sits up straight, unable to believe it.

They look at each other, eyes accustomed to the dark.

“Was that…?” Derek whispers, and Stiles’ swallows loud enough to hear. He nods.

One of Stiles’ hands goes up and clutches his chest.

 _A heartbeat,_ Derek thinks, and lays back onto the pile of grass that they’ve used as a blanket. He can’t sleep the rest of the night.

* * *

 

Scott and the others smell Derek long before they are in sight. He hears their howls on the wind, the unease of the landscape around him and –most potently—Stiles’ fear. It’s something that he hasn’t smelled in a long time, probably ever since Stiles got bitten over six months ago.

Derek turns to him, squeezes his arm. He used to be disgusted by Stiles’ green skin, his claws, his misted-over eyes, but it hasn’t mattered to him in a long time. And when Stiles looks at him, he can’t think about anything besides letting him know that it’s going to be ok. Stiles’ heart still beats slow, maybe once every twenty minutes, but Derek wonders if it feels like it's racing. 

“I’m going to call Scott, ok?” he says, and Stiles nods from his place under the table. They’re in a run-down cabin about two miles from the camp entrance, and Derek doesn’t want to get closer. He doesn’t know what the others will do if they see Stiles—he needs the alpha.

When he howls, back in his wolf form, he feels calmer than he has in a long time. Maybe it’s something about knowing Scott is coming—that he’s Stiles’ best friend. Maybe it’s being back in wolf form, about feeling safe having claws and teeth.

Maybe it’s that everything is going to be ok, for once in his life.

* * *

 

Lydia mixes two vials of clear liquid in a test tube, Derek watching her with anxious eyes.

“It’s going to be fine,” she tells him, but he can tell by the way that her shoulders are set that she isn’t sure, either.

* * *

 

Scott doesn’t waste time getting to them, and his pants are the first things that Derek hears. He seems to have come unobstructed, no Feasters to stop him. In fact, when Derek takes the time to reflect on it, they haven’t seen any Feasters for miles.

“Derek?” Scott gasps, eyes wide, already in human form the second he catches sight of Derek. Derek shifts on his feet, realizing he didn’t fully think through what he was going to say. Scott just gapes at him. “Derek? Is that seriously you? We thought—we thought you had died!”

“We didn’t die,” Derek croaks, and Scott seems at a loss for words.

“We?” he asks weakly, voice wavering, and then whips around to survey the area around him. “Is Stiles with you?!”

“I’ll take you to him,” Derek says, and Scott’s face turns hopeful in a second, “but you have to promise not to hurt him. And—and to listen, to what’s going on.”

Scott steps forward, confused and hurt. “Derek,” he asks, “what’s going on?”

* * *

 

“So… this seems complicated,” Scott says, gesturing at Stiles, and Stiles shoots a pouting look in his direction. If anyone could look like a kicked sad puppy, it would be Scott right now. “I’m not—not saying that you’re not, y’know, great….” He trails off, and Stiles huffs. Scott looks back over at Derek, guilty.

“We need to get him, and the cure sample we have, back to the camp,” Derek tells him, and Scott nods. He bites his lip and shuffles from side-to-side, as Scott does when he’s nervous.

“We haven’t had Feasters in this area for a few months, and so I think… well, seeing Stiles might not be…” Derek can tell that Scott is trying to find the right words, trying to be honest without hurting Stiles’ feelings. Derek shortcuts him.

“I don’t care if they’re going to be shocked, or scared,” he says, and he can feel Stiles’ eyes on him. “Stiles is still himself. We’ve managed to discover a cure, and need Lydia’s help on it. And I’m not leaving Stiles out here alone. We’re coming into the camp. You’re the alpha. Can’t you just order people to mind their own business?”

“It kind of is their business, Derek,” Scott says, and Stiles lets out a grunt of agreement.

“The cure is,” Derek says. But then he points at Stiles. “But his life? What he’s gone through? That’s not their business at all.”

He remembers what it was like after the Hale family fire, to have everyone poking their noses into his tragedy. There he was, mourning all the things he had lost, and people wanted to know things that his mind hadn’t even sorted out. Here was Stiles, who lost his humanity for months and was only starting to get pieces back. He couldn’t even _talk,_ damn it, and yet people would be asking questions.

“Urggggg,” Stiles says, and Scott and Derek look at him.

“What is it?” Derek asks, because Scott seems a bit taken-aback still.

“Urgggg,” he says, motioning to the bag on his back, and Derek grabs it. He opens it for Stiles, who digs through it, claws accidentally tearing the fabric in a few places. “Urgg,” he apologizes, but Derek shrugs it off.

“Oh, um,” Scott says, taking a step back as the cancerous part of Hank’s head is pulled out of the bag. His voice gets a bit higher. “Is that, uh, the, uh—the sample you talked about? With—with the cure stuff?”

“We think it’s cancer,” Derek tells him, and Scott frowns.

“Ok? But how is Stiles here, then? Shouldn’t he have been turned? He was healthy.” That’s when Derek realizes that Scott—Scott didn’t _know._ About the cancer. About Stiles. He snaps his mouth shut, and looks at Stiles. Stiles is looking at Scott, and when he steps forward Scott doesn’t jump.

Stiles points at the tumor on the brain. Then to himself. Then back to the tumor.

Scott takes them back to the campsite right away, after that.

* * *

 

“I’m glad you were with him,” Scott says, and Derek shakes his head.

“It doesn’t make any difference, now,” Derek whispers, watching Stiles’ still body on the bed.

“It matters,” Scott reassures him, but Derek doesn’t feel any better.

* * *

 

“The cancer cells must be battling against the Feaster ones,” Lydia says, shining a bright light into Stiles’ squinting eyes. “And canceling each other out, it seems. Leaving normal cells to grow. Well, human cells. Not exactly normal.”

They’re all gathered around him in a tent, some still wiping tears from their eyes from the emotional return. The Sheriff is still crying, hand on Stiles’ shoulders, body shaking from discovering his son is alive.

 Lydia, of course, has gone right back to business. “Say ahh,” she tells Stiles, and he opens his mouth.

“Urgggg,” he says, and a smile sneaks onto Scott’s face. Derek glares at him, and he forces it to be serious again.

“Interesting,” Lydia murmurs, and Stiles lets out a sound of protest when she jabs a needle into his arm. The sound makes Derek twitch, perceptible even to the human eye, and Kira glances at him in concern. Even in a place that should be safe, Derek can’t stop the protective instinct that he’s cultivated over the past six months.

“What fascinating blood properties,” the redhead gushes, and Stiles grudgingly lets her take another sample. She takes two from Hank’s cancered brain, and then turns to them all. “Well, I’ll get working on this. Science takes time, people!”

“You have all those other Feaster samples already,” Kira pushes, and Lydia rolls her eyes.

“Not from ones that are living, or half-human,” she says, and then sweeps out of the tent.

* * *

 

There’s a book of Shakespeare by Stiles’ bedside as the cure Lydia made out of Hank’s brains and Stiles’ blood does its work.

Derek doesn’t tell them why.

* * *

Right before Stiles goes in to have the cure tested, he pulls Derek aside.

“What’s going on?” Derek asks, because Stiles looks serious. He has a bit more pink in his skin underneath the green, and his eyes are clearer. They haven’t had much time together for the past few weeks, and it makes Derek uneasy and jealous. He misses having Stiles all to himself, of being the only one. But he’s happy for him, and his family. It just hurts, too.

Derek wonders if that’s what love is like.

Stiles shoves a piece of paper in his hands, and Derek glances down at it.

“Should I read it?” Derek asks, and Stiles shoots him a look that says _no shit, Sherlock._

Derek opens the piece of paper, and almost drops it in surprise. In it are torn-out sentences, paragraphs, sloppily laid onto the page with glue sticking out around the edges. _Doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love,_ says one, from Hamlet, and Derek feels himself getting emotional. Stiles shuffles back and forth as Derek reads, until he gets to the end.

 _Good Night, Good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow_ , it reads, and Derek looks up at Stiles with a mess of feelings welling inside him. He swallows, too loudly for the quiet of the winter morning, and Stiles reaches out to take his hands. His nails are shorter, and painted pink by Kira and Lydia as a prank, and it makes Derek want to cry.

“I’ll be waiting, too,” he croaks, and Stiles smiles.

 _I know,_ his eyes say.

* * *

 

Light flickers into the tent from the wind opening a small corner, slight breeze sneaking into the stillness inside. It’s very early morning, the sun rising out of the sky like sherbert, beautiful oranges and reds, and it is just like any other day.

Except, for people in the tent, it’s not.

Because it’s the day Stiles opens his eyes.

* * *

 

The first thing Stiles does when he wakes up is kiss Derek. Derek, who hasn’t eaten since the cure started its work on Stiles’ body. Derek, who risked his life and sanity for six months to cling to the small human part of Stiles that was still left. Derek, who cries as Stiles kisses him and hugs him close, who buries his face in his neck and whispers over and over, “I love you, I love you.”

Stiles says it back.

Teary, they pull back to look at each other. Stiles’ eyes are clear, his skin pink, and only the scrapes and bruises on his too-thin body show the signs that he was bitten at all.

“Let’s visit Hank with a nice vial of this, ok?” Stiles asks, his voice weak from a lack of use, and Derek lets out a watery laugh. The look on Stiles' face when he hears it is worth everything. The six months. The pain. The fear. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, and everything is ok.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> For my friend to read as she gets better from her surgery <3


End file.
